


Current

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Cairo Day 2020 (MacGyver 2016), Cairo Day 2020 Day Three: This Is Going to Hurt, Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Whump, mac goes a little... feral...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Mac and Jack argue about the division of labor.Cairo Day Three: This Is Going to Hurt
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 102





	Current

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you are all enjoying Cairo Week so far! I'm scrambling like mad, finishing up the last few stories, reading the delicious treats that the super talent fam-dom is sharing, and reply to everyone and say "Thank You" for all your comments, kudos and support. 
> 
> Thanks to the mods for putting all of this together and gathering up all the posts so they can be easily found.
> 
> And thank you to a lovely anonymous friend who dropped this idea into my ask box... like a _really_ long time ago.
> 
> Love,  
> Pluto
> 
> (P.S. heed the tag, Mac does go a little... feral...)

“ _B_ _ack in black  
_ _I hit the sack  
_ _I've been too long  
_ _I'm glad to be back”_

Jack’s rasping vocals cut off with a grunt and the smack of flesh striking flesh. 

Mac braces. Refrains from wincing as Jack takes another hit. Tries not to show how much the sight of his partner taking a beating, taking hit after hit, is affecting him. He feels each blow as if it’s on his own skin. His eye twitches. No matter how many times they find themselves in a situation like this one, he’ll never get used to Jack claiming the attention of their captors and forcing their focus on himself.

 _“Yes, I'm let loose  
_ _From the noose  
_ _That's kept me hanging about”_

“Heh. Hanging around. Get it, hoss?” Jack rattles the chains that secure his hands above his head, keeping him on his tiptoes. He balances and turns his head enough to meet Mac’s eyes. “You don’t happen to know the next line do ya?”

Mac grunts in acknowledgement, tape fixed securely over his mouth keeping him from answering. 

“Hmm, yeah, you’re right, something about sky and high…”

 _“I got nine lives  
_ _Cat's eyes  
_ _Abusin' every one of them  
_ _and running wild”_

The sickening sound of cartilage crumpling under the force of the blow as Jack’s head snaps backward, cutting off his discordant warbling when his jaw snaps shut. The back of his head glancing against the cold stone wall behind him. 

A fist strikes his cheek. Fresh droplets of blood flinging through the air. Landing in a spray and painting the rough block walls. 

Mac flinches. Warmth spatters across his cheek, against the bridge of his nose. If he crosses his eyes he can see where Jack’s blood settled on his skin. Already cooling. 

When he smiles, Jack’s teeth are stained red. His lips curling up in a macabre grin. “Don’t feel like you need to pull your punches, dude. I can handle it if you really want to go to town.”

Mac glares at Jack, narrowing his eyes. He knows that Jack hears him loud and clear, even if his voice is absent, the silent orders to shut up and not provoke their captors. 

“ _Cause I’m back in black  
_ _Yes, I'm back in black_ ”

His trill voice echoes down the hallway. Mac struggles against the hands that grip his upper arms with a bruising force, his feet barely touching the floor as he’s dragged back down the hall. Hands secured behind his back. Protesting every step. Not wanting Jack out of his sight. As hard as it is to watch, it’s worse when Jack comes back wincing from injuries Mac can’t see. Bleeding from new sources.

Mac’s shoved through the door, stumbling but remains upright. He whirls around, legs braced for an attack. One launched against him or maybe his own. Glowering through blond hair that falls against his face, anger simmering, eyes snapping. 

The door is held open, mocking him. Daring him to make an escape attempt. Jack paid for the last one so he refrains. He strains against the tape around his wrists, the skin wringing and hair pulling under the adhesive. He twists, raising his arms to use leverage and gravity to force the tape into splitting without success.

Guffaws from the doorway as the guards watch the struggle in the hall. Jack fighting every step that he’s marched through the corridor. 

“What no encore? I always make a curtain call. Karaoke champ in four states.” 

He’s tossed into the cell, staggers, keeping his feet under him and immediately straightens. Stepping in front of Mac. Holding his position there. His body thrumming with energy and ready for a fight. 

Not until the door clangs shut does Jack relax his guard, and even then, it’s only a minute shifting of the tension from his shoulders.

“I’ll be here all week, fellas.” He taunts then waits, watching the door for another moment before turning and facing Mac. 

“You okay, kid?” Jack asks, cupping Mac’s face in his hands.

Mac grunts as Jack squints, peering into his eyes. His thumb strokes Mac’s cheek, gently wiping the blood from his face. 

“Any of this yours?” His eyebrows lower in concern. Two fingers pressed against Mac’s pulse under his jaw.

Mac huffs, mumbling through the tape. Not one speck is his and Jack should know that with the way he incensed their captors, keeping their attention on himself. 

Jack smiles. “You gonna yell at me if I take this tape off?”

A snort, Mac is not making any promises about that. He would definitely be in for a lecture and mild scolding if he tried pulling the same stunt Jack had. 

“Alright, on three?” Jack carefully peels up one corner. “One. Two-” he rips without warning. “Sorry! Sorry,” he murmurs as Mac hisses and would reach for his face if his hands weren’t still secured behind his back.

“What was that?”

“Thought it would be better to surprise ya. Rip the bandaid off...”

“Not the tape. Were you trying to get them to bash your head in and be done with it?”

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna yell.” Jack pushes Mac’s hair back, looking for injury. 

“Stop that,” Mac pulls away. “I’m fine. You’re the only one they were beating on.”

“Then I did my job,” Jack says with a decisive nod of his head, dropping his hand on Mac’s shoulder, steadying himself as the room dips.

“Come on, sit down.”

“Aww, ya do care,” Jack teases, missing the hurt that flashes across Mac’s face and the implications that he thinks Mac isn’t worried.

Lowering himself to the floor, Jack groans and presses one side of his face against the cool cinderblock walls of their cell and closes his eyes in relief. “Oh, that’s nice. Might start keeping some of these in the freezer.”

“Let me see your eyes.”

With a grumble, he cracks one eye open.

“Could I get a little help?” Mac asks, turning his back and giving Jack access to his hands.

Sighing, Jack peels away the tape and with it a layer of skin and hair from Mac’s wrists. “You’re gonna start poking me with these fingers as soon as you’re free, aren’t ya?”

Once the tape is released, Mac wiggles his fingers, returning the circulation. He gently takes Jack’s chin, turning his head so he can assess the damage, the bruising worse on the left side of his face. His left eye rapidly swelling shut. Mac tugs on the lid so he can see Jack’s pupil. The white of his eye dyed red from a broken blood vessel. 

“I’m gonna be fine, hoss,” Jack reassures as he watches Mac’s lips turn down into a deeper frown. 

“You can’t keep provoking them like this.”

“Sure I can,” Jack shrugs. “I’m only on AC/DC of my musical library. I’ve got a lot more where that came from. The bad guys always lose their minds when I finally get to Salt -n- Pepa. It’s a classic.” 

“If we’re both going to get out of here, you need to stop drawing their attention. I can take whatever they dish out.”

“I can’t watch them hit you, Mac.”

“And you think I can.” Mac stands, angrily pacing the short length of their prison cell. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“When it’s me, you do everything you can to get their attention. When it’s you, you get angry with me for doing the exact same thing.”

“Because I only have to save you. If I can keep you safe, you can protect the rest of the world. I don’t have to worry about the rest. I don’t have to worry about anything else except you. So, it’s good when it’s me. Now, stop your pacing and get over here.”

“Fine, you say you're just doing your job, then I need to do mine." Running his fingers along the stone wall and the seam of the doorjamb searching. He pats down his pockets. Their captors were thorough, his knife, paperclips. Even the paperclips Jack keeps in his leather wrist cuff. He examines every crevice and corner. He drops, sitting next to Jack, lost in thought, cycling through and discarding plans.

Jack pats Mac’s shoulder, then drops his head to rest again it. “It’s okay, hoss. You’ll get it. I trust ya.”

Mac sighs, hoping that trust isn’t misplaced. 

His brain screams at him to _figure it out_ when they come for Jack again.

* * *

Mac sits against the cinderblock wall. Bare feet planted on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees. The thin t-shirt he wears does nothing to dissuade the cold from sinking into his bones. The dampness of the basement makes his joints throb. He’s too young for this kind of chronic pain. 

He’s going to need some time with a hot water bottle, and a refresher on the shoulder exercises his PT prescribed the last time he was injured, when they get out of here.

Jack’s head rests on his shoulder again, this time unconscious. 

They’ve spent at least four days as the surprise guests of their captors. Mac thinks it might be more. He can’t keep track by the changing of the guard. There’s no rhyme or reason that he can determine for when they’re dragged from their cell. They’ve been given food and fresh water a few times but not consistently. And he doesn’t have the benefit of using his scruff to mark the passage of time. He hates to think they’ll be here long enough for the fuzz on his face to increase significantly and allow him to mark the clock. 

And despite their conversations about sharing the punishment, Jack has done his best at keeping all the thugs’ loving attention to himself.

 _“I’m cooler than a bunny on ice,  
_ _Hotter than the rolling dice.  
_ _Send you to heaven, take you to hell,  
_ _I ain’t fooling can’t you tell?”_

Mac struggles, trying to out shout Jack’s singing. Insulting the guard’s parentage, their girlfriends, their receding hairlines. They just don’t find him as amusing at Jack.

_“I’m a live wire…”_

“Oh, come on fellas, you’re supposed to do the echo. Let’s try it again. I’ll sing both parts to help you out.”

 _“I’m a live wire…  
_ _Live wire”_

“You can do better than that. I was counting on you. Don’t be shy.”

And they aren’t. They’re inspired by Jack’s musical selection and pull out a cattleprod, clicking with electricity. Mac lunges, and takes a blow to his head that makes him see stars and knocks him out, further altering his perception of time.

He wakes up on Jack’s cargo-covered thigh. Scrambling to sit up, pushing aside Jack’s shirt and searching for injury, despite Jack’s promises that he is fine. He finds no new holes, bruises or burns. So, when Jack scolds him about keeping his mouth shut next time, Mac calls it a win. 

But his outburst only delayed the inevitable. A few hours reprieve rather than a stay. 

They wanted him watching. 

They wanted him to see Jack screaming and writhing as the current flows through his flesh. Muscles contracted. Body spasming. 

Teeth clenched. The vibrations of shouts that are muffled by paralyzed vocal cords. 

The tension disappears the second the current is released. 

_“High-voltage rock and roll…”_

Jack pants the chorus before another charge is released through his body. The last note stuck in his throat, vibrating through the shock. 

His knees buckle when it dissipates. Hanging from his shoulders, swinging as his feet search for stability. 

They keep pushing. Keep prodding at him until Jack’s voice is hoarse. 

“The big one, the robo-cop with the electro-stick, he likes to play rough,” Jack groans as Mac examines his ribs when they are finally back in their cell. 

“Yeah, I gathered that. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Jack scowls but complies, breathing in as deeply as he dares before releasing a slow pain-filled breath. 

“You’ve got at least three, maybe four broken ribs,” Mac says, palpating again.

Jack bats his hands away. “Yeah, yeah. They’re broken. Got it. As long as they’re all mine, I don’t need an exact count.”

Jack wears his scars as badges of honor. Proof that because of him, his family is safe. 

Mac’s jaw tightens with the too familiar argument. No matter his protests, Jack will always view himself as a admissible loss. His injuries, as insignificant as long as it means Mac is okay. Despite their arguments, Jack won't cede this point.

“Some things are fundamental truths, hoss.” 

And Mac thinks they need to review exactly what a fundamental truth is. 

_Mac doesn’t carry a gun._

Truth. Not since they left the army. He’s a good shot. He still has to qualify twice a year as part of the Phoenix field agent status, but this area of their partnership is clearly defined. And according to Jack, Mac’s greatest weapon, and their greatest chance for survival, is between his ears. 

_Bruce Willis is the greatest action hero of all time_. 

Opinion. Not that Mac is going to tell Jack that. And he’s not going to disagree with that opinion because he holds it too. He’ll tell Jack he needs to expand his cinematic experiences, but Mac will never turn down the offer to watch... Fall asleep to… Die Hard. He’s also not going to mention that he prefers Bruce’s comedic timing even more than his ability to blow things up. 

_Milk run missions are never what they appear to be._

Truth. If they’re sent on a mission that sounds like they have the potential to make it home in time for dinner, pack a bag and make sure the first aid kit is stocked. The intel is always lacking, and the bad guys are always waiting for them.

 _That the division of labor in their partnership means Jack takes the hits. That his life is an acceptable forfeit for Mac’s._

Mac vehemently protests this lie. This completely unacceptable, unimaginable opinion. This flawed theory that only Jack holds. Faulty logic. False. Erroneous. Mistaken belief. An abominable, godawful thought. Wrong. 

Wrong. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And somehow Mac needs Jack to see the truth. That Mac will never allow Jack to make that kind of noble, idiotic sacrifice for him. 

_And it’s always darkest before the dawn._

While a nice sentiment, this is, of course, completely false. The darkest hour is around midnight, firmly between sunrise and sunset, the mass of the earth blocking any rays of light. The words are nothing more than an attempt to give hope in an impossible situation. 

Impossible situations are their specialty. 

But this is going from impossible to worse.

Jack is yelling.

Screaming. 

Rattling the chain that keeps him pinned to the wall by his ankle like a junkyard dog ready to attack. To rip out the throats of anyone who dares to lay a hand on anything under his protection. 

Anyone who dares to lay a hand on Mac.

Mac is lying prone on the floor. His left arm twisted behind him in a bruising hold. He bucks against the guards kneeling on his back, a hand wrapped in his hair forces his head upright. Forces him to look toward his extended right hand. 

There’s no monologuing from the guard. No lectures that actions have consequences. No condescending, chiding reminders that he brought this on himself for his escape attempt.

A large hand closes around the smallest of his thin fingers. There’s a jolt and a snap. An explosion of pain, screeching like a live wire up his arm. 

Jack goes silent as the pop of breaking bone echoes against the cinder block walls. 

A pain-filled grunt, hoarse and clawing against vocal cords for its release, chases it. Mac throws his head back, jaw clenched, the veins on his neck straining. 

The guard on his back grinds his knee into Mac’s spine, holding him against the floor. 

His ring finger, the weakest finger, yanked viciously out of joint. Mac’s gasp sounds more like a desperate whine. 

Jack growls. “Stop it. You’ve made your point. Let him go!” The skin around his ankle tears with the force of his struggles but he barely notices it. Blood drips against the floor. 

“You want a finger?” Jack shouts holding both of his middle fingers up, pointed towards the guards. “You want these? You son of a bitch!”

The guards ignore his tirades, and force Mac’s middle finger upward. He closes his eyes. The unshed tears that he’d tried to push away falling. This time, he can’t hold back the scream. 

Jack always told him not to be a hero. Scream. Rant. Carry on. Let them think he’s closer to breaking than he is. Trick them into going easier on him. He’s never been good at that. Stubborn, proud and full of spite. 

And Jack is a hypocrite. As he’s proven in spades this week. Making a nuisance of himself. Keeping the attention firmly on him. 

At least, for now, the attention is off Jack. It’s his only consolation. He strains to keep his screams muted. This will only feed Jack’s fervent attempts to keep him safe, and he’s taken more than his share of the punishment already. 

His hope that his index finger would be his last broken bone is dashed when his thumb is dislocated. His head drops to the floor as the hand moves from his hair. The guards move as one, slowly releasing him, and backing away. Mac is on his feet in a heartbeat, lashing out with his unbroken left hand, clipping one of the guards on the chin, when the cattle prod lights up his ribs. His jaw clacking shut as he lands heavily on his knees. Falling forward and barely catching himself with his undamaged hand. 

He cradles his right hand to his chest, as he lies on the floor, trying to remember how to breathe through the pain. The rushing sound in his head slowly fades and he can hear Jack shouting again. 

“Mac, come on, buddy. You still awake?” His voice lowers, gentle and coaxing. “Come on, Mac. Let me see you.” 

He focuses on breathing. On not throwing up. On shoving the pain aside so he can think beyond the impulse of _hurts_. So he can calm Jack’s worry. So he can start thinking of a way out of this. 

With a shaky hand, Mac pushes himself into a sitting position, swallowing back a roll of nausea. 

“I can’t reach ya, Mac. I’d chew my own leg off, but that’d take too long. Can ya come over here by me?”

Mac nods slowly, scooting across the floor, the chain attached to his ankle scraping against the floor behind him. He settles back against the wall, with his leg extended, he can sit shoulder to shoulder with Jack. His head tips back, lightly bumping against the brick, arms cradled to his chest. 

“Can I see Mac?”

Mac shakes his head. Not daring to speak yet, until he gets a lid on the pain. 

The tearing sound of fabric as Jack rips off his sleeves. 

“Please, Mac, let me. Let me look.”

It’s a testament to the trust between them that Mac extends his arm to Jack when all he wants to do is curl up like an animal and snarl at anyone who comes too close. 

Jack speaks in a low soothing drawl, words that Mac can’t comprehend over the buzz of pain in his brain, but he knows the tone. He knows the care and the comfort. The worry and the love.

* * *

Mac hears the crack of bone. 

It echoes in the small room, reverberating in his brain. He flinches, feeling the pain in his hand again, but this time it’s worse. This time it’s Jack. 

And Jack’s screams drown out everything else. Resounding in his ears. He flinches again, aching. 

Electricity snaps. Jack convulses. His jaw clacks shut. Eyes wide. His entire body locked into a spasm and Mac watches tears roll down his face, his lips turning blue.

He must have bit his tongue or his lip because blood drools from his mouth, down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. Onto the floor. 

“Stop. Stop.” Mac yells.

The clicking of current stops. Jack gasps, deep and painful. Coughing that dissolves into another cry of pain from abused ribs.

“No songs for us this time?”

Blue lightning arcs from the prod again. Jack’s scream is cut off when his vocal cords seize. 

Joints contorting. 

Teeth bared. Spasm after spasm. 

Pain.

Release from the electricity’s deadly hold. 

Panting breaths. Attempts to fill his lungs before the current paralyzes his chest again. 

Rivulets of blood running down his arms from the cuffs tearing his wrists to shreds. 

This time when the arc stops Jack’s head doesn’t move. His weight hangs on his wrists and shoulders, feet brushing against the floor. 

They taunt him. Prodding him again. Thinking he’s playing possum.

But even Jack with his skill and his pain threshold couldn’t hang limp and unreacting. It doesn’t stop them.

Jack’s inert body swings like a pendulum.

Back and forth on his wrists.

Hypnotic.

Blood splats again the floor.

Rhythmic drops.

The chain chimes like a bell. 

Electricity dances across Jack's skin again.

Mac screams. 

Something wild. Untamed.

Jack’s screeching voice, twisting in violent pain inside his skull.

_My lightning's flashing across the sky._

Something snaps inside him. Something wild that can't be contained.

Something dangerous released.

He takes his chance and a move from Jack’s playbook. Throwing his head back and butting the man behind him. Knocking him back against the wall. Using his body, Mac slams the man’s head against the wall again and again. Releasing him, he slumps, leaving a smear of blood against the bricks as he slides to the floor.

_You’re only young but you’re gonna die._

He swings wildly with the foot still chained, snapping it like a whip. A rattle of metal and a crunch of bone.

A flare of rage and madness.

He charges, bowling over a thug in a tangle of limbs. Mac’s hands restrained in front of him, he lashes out with powerful vicious kicks that drop the man. 

Scrambling to his feet, he throws his bound arms around the neck of another guard, twisting and tightening. He kicks out against another henchman coming towards him, aiming for his knee and the joint caves. Bending in a direction it was never meant to go and he falls with an incensed yowl. A kick to the man’s head snaps his neck and he goes silent.

_I won't take no prisoners, won't spare no lives._

The guard in his arms is a dead weight and Mac tosses him aside. He pops his shoulder, giving himself the right leverage, snapping the fibrous tape and freeing his arms. 

He gives a cry of pain when the motion jars his broken fingers and uses that pain as a motivator. 

He’s a tornado of vengeance. Borne of desperation and terror. Demanding atonement for Jack’s blood. 

_Nobody's putting up a fight._

His last opponent sneaks up behind him and drives the cattleprod into his shoulder. Mac screams. His vision goes dark.

And a primal fury erupts. 

_Hell’s bells._

Clawing through the pain, he hand wraps around the baton. Tearing it from his attacker’s hands and wielding it like a club. Blood explodes from his nostrils. Mac spins the baton in his hands and jabs the ignited end into the soft tissue of the man’s abdomen and doesn’t let go. The man convulses. Tumbling to the floor. And Mac doesn’t stop. Sparks flying. He has to protect Jack. 

Has to save him.

He spins around in a low crouch, like a caged animal. Waiting.

Watching. 

Stumbling over to Jack. His breathing labored from exertion. Probing for a pulse. Nearly collapsing in relief when he finds it. 

He wraps his arms around Jack’s chest. Lifting him to remove his bound hands from the hook over his head. Mac’s knees buckle under Jack’s sudden dead weight against him. He grunts and stands. Pulling his inert body into the corner, the most defensible position. He lowers Jack to the floor, cradling his head to his chest. Cattleprod in hand, eyes watching the door, daring anyone to try to get close. 

They won’t take Jack again. Not while Mac has the watch. 

The adrenaline doesn’t abate. Pupils dilated. Wandering over the inert bodies on the floor, then returning, fixing themselves on the door. 

He won’t be surprised. 

He won’t let Jack down.

Listening to Jack’s strained breathing. Attune to any changes. Straining to hear any sound beyond the stone walls of their prison. 

Jack's eyes stay closed.

Tremors shake through him. Mac can't stop shivering.

His breathing raspy, or maybe that's Mac's.

His grip tightens on Jack, pulling him closer. He clicks on the cattle prod, the blue arc dancing between prongs. Not again. He won't let it happen again. He tears his fingernails pulling off the small panel. Burns his fingertips digging through the wires. Loosening the connections. Ripping out the voltage regulator, ignoring the shocks and sparks, and the way the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands on end. 

He'll be ready.

They won't be able to stop him.

Boots against the rough concrete floor. Footsteps echo. Voices. Radios.

They’re coming.

He’ll die before he’ll let them touch Jack. And he’ll take as many with him as he can. 

The door opens. Men clad in black enter. Guns raised.

“Stay back!” Mac screams, jabbing the sparking cattle prod in their direction.

They yell back at him. Trying to step closer.

Even with their guns, they’ll be no match for him. Not for the storm of wrath and fervor burning in his blood. Not when Jack’s life is in his hands. 

They try to trick him. Use his name. Use Jack’s name. Distort their voices to deceive him. Make him trust them. A ruse. A trap. 

Jack shifts in his arms.

“Shh,” Mac breathes. “It’s alright, Jack. You’re safe. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

* * *

Shouting wakes Jack. He struggles to sit up, heart racing. Pushing against Mac’s tight grip.

“Mac,” Jack raises his head. “What’s going on?”

“Stay down, Jack. Please stay down.” 

He recognizes one of his TAC teams. Mac should too. He’s trained with them often enough. But he’s holding them at bay for Jack’s hackles raise. He trusts them, but he trusts Mac more. His mind races. 

He takes in the carnage of their captors dead on the floor. Bodies strewn across the small cell. Blood on the walls. On Mac’s face and hands. 

“Mac, what happened?”

“I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Dalton…” Bravo Lead Simon Gates’ voice trails off. “He has a head injury. He won’t let us approach.”

“Shut up,” Mac warns, thrusting the club in his direction. “Stay back!”

“Mac, look at me for a second bud.”

“I can’t. I have to stay alert. I can’t let them hurt you.”

Jack shifts, lifting his hand to Mac’s face. “Hey, kiddo, this is Phoenix TAC. They’re us. They’re here to help.”

“It’s a trap.”

“I promise you it’s not. You know Gates. We trained with his team a few times.”

“You have a head injury, Jack. They were hurting you. I have to keep you safe.”

“No, Mac, look, those guys on the floor. They were hurting me. Hurting us. But TAC took care of them. And you took care of me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Mac exhales a stifled sob. “You always take care of me.”

“It’s what family does. Mac, let me take over now, okay? Let me get you home safely.” Jack holds his hand out, asking Mac to hand over the baton. To trust him.

Mac looks between Jack’s hand and his weapon, his only defense for protecting Jack. Then slowly turns over the club. 

Jack tosses it away, and sits up, gathering Mac into his arms. “I got you, kiddo. I’ve got you. We’re going home, bud.” He waved back the TAC team and the medics. He doesn't need to overwhelm the kid right now. Ignoring the pain in his ribs and his tremulous muscles, he helps Mac to stand, arms across the other’s shoulder, supporting each other as they limp from their cell.

Jack pauses at the door, looking back at the cell. At the blood and the scene. It doesn't look like a TAC team's work. It looks like...

Mac shudders in his grasp.

Blood on his face and his hands.

It looks like terror.

Jack holds Mac a little tighter and eases him from the room.

* * *

Mac sits in a chair on the deck, staring pensively at the skyline. Past the skyline. Or more accurately, through it, as though he’s on another plane of existence. Caught up in his thoughts, tangled in his brain.

“Thought I told you to stop worrying?” Jack says, his voice soft, gentle. 

Mac gives a self-conscious smile and a guilty shrug. “You did.

He had.

The fog lifted from Mac’s mind as they sat on side by side exam beds in medical. The retribution he reigned down on their captors, felt like he was watching someone else’s hands, someone else’s violence. 

He’s not ashamed of that. Doesn’t feel guilt… well, at least, not much. Not yet. Not when he remembers it was them or Jack. When he closes his eyes and sees Jack’s face turning blue. Or bloodstained lips. Or the burns seared onto his skin. 

He’s distraught that he was so lost in his rampage of bloodshed, in his destructive duress that he kept help from Jack. Held an entire Phoenix TAC team at bay with a cattleprod and murder in his eye. They could have taken him down easily but they didn’t want to risk hurting him more. 

He doesn’t want to think of what would have happened if Jack hadn’t woken when he did. If he hadn’t been able to talk him down. Get Mac to trust him.

He wheezed a sharp breath as the memories flooded back. Without hesitation, Jack hopped off his bed and shuffled to Mac. Climbed up and sat next to his partner, putting an arm around his shoulder. Whispering an oath of protection and love as the doctors put them back together again. Sitting at Mac's bedside as they put him under for surgery to fix his hand. Promising to be there. That he wouldn't be alone.

Sitting there when he wakes up again. Stroking his hair.

“And are you?”

“Worrying or stopping?” Mac gives a pained smile. 

Jack hooks a foot around the chair next to Mac, pulling it closer before sitting down. He puts his hand on Mac’s arm above the casted hand and wrist. 

“I’m okay,” Mac says and at Jack’s raised eyebrow continues. “I’m not just saying that. I would do anything to protect you.”

Jack nods, his expression regretful. "I'm sorry that you had to."

Mac swallows. “No more AC/DC, for a long time, okay?”

His hand moves to Mac’s neck. Finger scritching at the hair on the nape of his neck. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

Mac relaxes. 

They’ll be okay. They’ll heal.

They always do.

And come out the other side stronger than ever. 

**Author's Note:**

> AC/DC songs in order of appearance:  
> Back in Black  
> Live Wire  
> High Voltage  
> Hell's Bells


End file.
